Depressing? Sherlock isn't really certain how to respond to that. He sits silent, expression carefully blank. If John were here, he'd know what to do, how to answer, what to say to balance what's honest and what's good.
He's not here, though, and that leaves Sherlock reeling, trapped in a silence that stretches out the spaces between seconds, fills them up with questions, packed so tight he can hardly think, much less come up with the right answer, the acceptable answer, because it isn't, it isn't depressing at all, it's how things are, it happened, it's a wonderful mystery but besides that it's how people will always be (isn't it?) but that's not good, that's not a bit good to say, not even to think silently, yet here he sits, thinking it, being not a bit good, caught in an uncomfortable loop of thoughts (jumbled) and feelings (equanimous, unsettled), can't, can't for a moment understand but he's “-- why there? If it was for the family, why there, why not somewhere closer?”
Perhaps it's best not to address it. You machine. But that was different. Then he'd known exactly what to do, because friends protect people. He just can't possibly consider it a failing that he was unable to protect a boy killed when he himself wasn't yet five, a boy who lived an ocean away. Can he? Does she?
“Impossible to say unless we know who the killer is in the first place.” Sherlock folds his hands in front of him. “Which is what I'm trying to find out.”
no subject
He's not here, though, and that leaves Sherlock reeling, trapped in a silence that stretches out the spaces between seconds, fills them up with questions, packed so tight he can hardly think, much less come up with the right answer, the acceptable answer, because it isn't, it isn't depressing at all, it's how things are, it happened, it's a wonderful mystery but besides that it's how people will always be (isn't it?) but that's not good, that's not a bit good to say, not even to think silently, yet here he sits, thinking it, being not a bit good, caught in an uncomfortable loop of thoughts (jumbled) and feelings (equanimous, unsettled), can't, can't for a moment understand but he's “-- why there? If it was for the family, why there, why not somewhere closer?”
Perhaps it's best not to address it. You machine. But that was different. Then he'd known exactly what to do, because friends protect people. He just can't possibly consider it a failing that he was unable to protect a boy killed when he himself wasn't yet five, a boy who lived an ocean away. Can he? Does she?
“Impossible to say unless we know who the killer is in the first place.” Sherlock folds his hands in front of him. “Which is what I'm trying to find out.”